


Congratulations You Have Found Baker Street

by TehChou



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Path (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehChou/pseuds/TehChou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for: sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/5013.html</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Mummy is sitting with him on her lap...</i></p><p> </p><p>BBC Sherlock/The Path crossover, no knowledge of The Path strictly necessary.<br/>Warnings for: mentions of drug use and self-harm</p>
            </blockquote>





	Congratulations You Have Found Baker Street

Mummy is sitting with him on her lap. She is good to him, he knows. Too good, perhaps. He is kicking his feet, knocking her shins. She says nothing about this. She cards her fingers through his hair, stroking his head in long, soothing passes. He leans against her and sighs.

"Your brother would like to see you," she says, after a long and comfortable moment of this. Sherlock sighs and wiggles a bit in her grip. Images of his brother flash in his mind. A tall man, statuesque in visage, standing straight backed and stiff out a window. He does not always talk to him when he wants something, just looks at him, clear-seeing and deep and somehow he finds he's done whatever his brother wants without even knowing he was agreeing to it.

"It is a case for you," Mummy continues, drawing his attention away from thoughts of his brother. "He would dearly love your help." She reaches beside her and pulls up a black leather suitcase.

"Be a darling and take this to him, as well. He is at the police station, today." She smiles, her chin resting against his head. He feels her expression on his scalp. Lets out a sigh. Finally, he takes the case, which is almost comically too big for him. He hops off the safety and warmth of mummy's lap.

"It had better be interesting," is all he has to add.

The light is thrumming, pulsing along the path. There are clouds above his head drifting lazily across the sky. The light from the sun is thrumming and pulsing with their path. There, far up ahead, if he squints he can just barely make out the proud lines of the station. A cool breeze flutters his jacket and tickles his face.

As he moves up the street, passing shops and flats he can't help but peek down the dark alleys between the brightly lit buildings. The warmth of the sun pounds heavily on his back, feeling oppressive instead of merely warm. His skin itches with curiosity, crawling uncomfortably and he finds he's slowing down at each junction, then speeding up again until the next shadow flooded crevice catches his eye. He swings his backpack to and fro absently pausing in front of one. After a long moment, he makes his decision and slips into the darkness.

Beyond the brightly lit and warmly coloured buildings the scenery is tarnished and crumbling. Buildings reach ragged skeletons up into the sky and crumbled mortar riddles the ground at his feet. Jagged and rusted metal gleeful plays around it, sticking up from the ground like twisted flowers reaching towards non-existent light. He cuts himself on one and the blood is bright red in stark contrast to the greying scenery it drips from the metal, rivulets running like arteries down the sides, as if his at of bleeding has given it life. He watches, fascinated. Frowning, a little crease forming between his brows he pops his finger in his mouth and turns his attention to something else.

There is a umbrella sitting propped up on a flaking wall. He lets himself drift towards it, fingers reaching to carefully wrap around the leather handle. He folds himself up, legs sticking like a seccound pair of ears up over his head, sitting on the hard concrete and examines it. In his minds eye mummy is watching him. Mycroft is beside him and they are talking. They open their mouths and static flows out. They trade the noise back and forth for a few moments, talking over his head, though mummy is still looking at him with her big, watery brown eyes. He touches one and it bursts, falling over his head and he snaps the umbrella up and open quickly.

He carries it with him for long while after that, twirling it back and forth in his fingers. Eventually he hears a noise up ahead and he goes to chase it and when he finds the source, he has forgotten all about it and it's fallen somewhere behind him. No, he is much more interested in this new mystery, in this signpost set to swaying. He wonders who did it, why the sign is swinging. He looks around, holds out his arm, finds no evidence of a breeze. He catches a glimpse of something in the windows nestled in the buildings up ahead of him. It flickers and his mind, magpie-like, immediately moves to follow.

He looks up and up and it is a boy. He is dressed in a robe and he is bright in a way the rest of the forest of buildings is not. Sherlock is fascinated, eyes too wide and tracking him rapidly as he flashes from shattered glass to shattered glass. He moves to follow him, to enter the ruin of a building, to run up the stairs, to see if he can catch him.

But the boy is very fast, faster than Sherlock and he can't anticipate where he's going to appear next, can't get a hold on him and in the next moment the boy is gone.

Sherlock feels an odd sense of panic hit him and he swallows back a noise that bubbles up his throat and spins around, suddenly realizes he doesn't actually know where he is and the bright street is no longer in his vision. The boy has led him deeper into the shadows then he'd wanted to go. He shakes himself quickly, disdainfully and reminds himself that he knows which way he came from and which way will take him back. He isn't a child.

He doesn't find anything but a tattered garden a half an hour later. He sits on a bench and he wonders who it belongs to and wonders where he is. It was so interesting here. Kicking his feet was a habit of his and he did it now, stubby legs swinging through the air. He let out a huff and hopped up on the stone bench, pacing back and forth along its length.

From this new height he thinks he can see a house in the distance. The sight makes him uneasy and he stills, watching it wearily for a long moment. He doesn't know why, but the house exudes oppressiveness. Oppressiveness and...something else. Something he isn't sure is unpleasant and wonders if he should see what it is, if he should go look at the house, peep in the windows, knock on the door.

Something hits him in the back, breaking him out of his reverie. His arms pinwheel helplessly for a moment and then he is crashing into the ground with a groan. He hears laughter and turns around to glare at whoever just pushed him over.

It's the boy from the windows. He's out of them, now and he's rocking back and forth on his heels, smile fixed on his face, pasted like glue. He wiggles his fingers at Sherlock, takes his hand and pulls him up and into a high velocity spin. Sherlock stumbles once, startled, but the world is spinning and swirls past them, blurring like a bad photograph, picking him up and carrying him with it. Lights are bright lines that encircle them. Trees, streaks of green. Through it all the boy continues to smile and the faint laughter he hears grows louder, seeming to spin with them, following his ear as he goes.

Eventually they come to a halt. The boy holds on to one hand and, looking over his shoulder the whole while, grinning his death's head grin, he drags him forward, away from his half-remembered building. Pulls and tugs him, edging him onward until the light from the setting sun breaks confidently through the clouds, illuminating the road ahead in splashes of purple and orange and pink. The boy stands with him for a long moment, bumping shoulders with him before tearing off into the distance, body weaving elegantly between hollowed out buildings and bits of saggy fence.

Sherlock watches him go, then turns to look up the street. There, far up ahead is the police building. It stands stark against the twilit sky. Sherlock decides it looks cold and unwelcoming. He is grateful to the boy, though, for showing him the way and so, to avoid hurting his feelings, he walks up the path a bit, the police station looming in the distance. Eventually, when he feels he has gone far enough up the road, he turns sharply and crashes down a side street, flashing past abandon buildings

Needles are strewn about the streets, now. They crack and shatter underfoot, crunching pleasantly. The shards flicker and glitter in the moonlight, throwing a plethora of bright colors across the walls of buildings and cars. It reflects back on his face. His nose is glowing blue and when he moves forward it is yellow and now green. He laughs, quick and high. It echos of the buildings chasing the bright lights dancing around him. He dances with them, taking the ethereal colours in hand and swirling about in their majesty.

Candy for the mind. He thinks, a bit giddy. This is where sanity lies.

Eventually, with great reluctance he has to leave behind the bright colours. There is little to do but rejoice, but he knows now there's other bright and shiny things here to grasp his mind, to pull and shove him everywhere he wants to go. He looks up and, startled he notices the boy is still watching him from the windows. His fingers are pressed again the window pane in the flat above him. His breath puffs against the glass, fogging it up from the inside. Sherlock watches as the boy draws a face in the condensation. It smiles at him, mouth too wide.

He turns away from the sight and continues on.

Eventually he comes to clearing, sectioned off by a ring of buildings he has to climb over to reach. There, slightly to the left of the middle, sitting atop an over turned car that is tilted up straight, tail pipe in the air, nose buried deep into the earth, is a skull. It is leafed in silver and it looking straight at him. Sherlock grabs his arm and looks away from it, suddenly shy, though his feet carry him forward. He picks it up carefully and turns it over, looking at it from all angles.

And then he begins to talk.

It is a stream of words that hover between them, dancing in the air of their own free will. It's a compulsion and he tells it what he's seen so far, tells it why he's here, tells it about absolutely _fascinating_ boy he met on the way here. He gets more and more excited as he goes on, tells him about the needles, about how he used to slot the shards beneath his skin like feathers that let him fly and how much better it made him feel than other boys his age. He was much cooler and would he be his friend? The skull agrees and he stays with it for a long time, crawling around and exploring the insides of the gutted car.

Eventually he tells it about the house. There is reverence in his voice and the skull is rapt. He suggests Sherlock go to investigate it in Sherlock's own voice. Excited, he agrees and sets him carelessly back atop the car. He hurries away, waving goodbye without looking, clambering his way out of the clearing's circle.

It teeters, falls to the ground and shatters and Sherlock doesn't even notice.

It takes him what feels like an hour to find the garden, again and a few more moments to find the house in the distance. He approaches it hesitantly, picking his way among the refuse, around the skeletal remains of abandoned buildings.

The boy is there. He is in all the windows and for some reason the house has a lot, all sectioned off neatly with crosses of wood. He is in each separate panel and he's staring at Sherlock, still grinning. For the first time Sherlock is unnerved by it, but it doesn't seem he can help himself when he walks forward. The closer he gets, the more the boy seems to disapprove until his entire expression has changed from rictus smile to a caricature of a frown, lips nearly dripping off of his face in his anger. The windows begin to glow, white hot and when he sets a hand to the doorknob they pop in a flash of blinding light.

It leaves him blind when he enters the house for a long, tense moment when he isn't sure he's alone in the cottage. His breathing is heavy in his ears, wooshing in and out of his chest. When his eyes finally adjust, its to a shock of clutter. The room he is in is filled with detritus. In the corner is a skull-less skeleton hanging from a hook, like one of those displays med students use only without the plastic organs arranged like a grotesque puzzle inside. He stares at it as he moves forward, then he is moving passed him. He nearly runs past the bathroom, barely looks into it. He knows what will be there, rubber strips and lighters and spoons. The next room is an orderly study with a roaring fire and it's too hot in there for him. He runs through that one, too.

He runs until he comes to the end of a hallway. There is a door at the end that is hanging just slightly open, letting a sliver of light slice through the carpeting. He tip toes towards it, pushes it open just a smidge and peaks in. No immediate danger presents itself and the room is surprisingly cozy looking. The clutter is organized this time. It is almost soothing. He pushes into the room.

There is a couch with its back facing him. The glowing light of the telley pulses throughout the room. Seated upon the couch is the silhouette of a child. As he gets closer, he realizes the boy is made of plastic. His skin is a uniform brown, like the colour of rich honey. Sherlock can see that the boy is swinging his legs back and forth back and forth rhythmic and hypnotizing. He brings to mind a toy that he owned, once, so long ago that Sherlock barely remembers. It is a strange memory, fleeting and dyed the muted colours of the past. As a boy, very small, much smaller then he is, now, so small he could barely read, he and his brother would play at soldiers. They played with tiny plastic green and brown men. His brother was brown, always, with Sherlock was always taking green. Within the set were many different molded soldiers. Some with guns, other with knives. Even, and he remembers that this one was his favorite, was a tiny doctor with a tiny medical bag. Mycroft told him it was a silly toy as the plastic was flawed in one leg, but it did not matter. Sherlock had loved it and kept it close, always with him in the pocket of his jacket.

Now, in this strange house, faced with this strange life-like toy he felt the overwhelming urge to check his pockets for his little doctor. It was an irrational urge, mummy had given the set away years ago when it was clear he and his brother were much to old for the things, and, yet. He reaches deep into his jacket pocket, fishing around for a long moment until, inexplicably, his hand touches on something small and smooth. Startled he curls his fingers around it, feeling the little medical kit, the bumpy texture of the flawed leg and the smooth helmet.

Sherlock must make some noise at the discovery. Back in the present the plastic boy is turning to him. An unsettled feeling grows in Sherlock's stomach. He is sitting forward on the couch and standing, carefully, as though his limbs are stiff. Fine grains of sand fall like gritty mist from his body. The sight is surreal and captivating. The boy faces him and Sherlock sucks in a quick breath.He has no face. Still, it(It is in his demeanor that he is smiling, in the tilt of his head, the jaunt of his stance.) seems as though he is smiling. He is excited and he hops stiffly from the couch, moving towards him jerkily, in fits and starts. Sherlock sees that cupped delicately between his hands is a tiny but surprisingly bright light. It flickers between his fingers, staining the edges of them red. He holds the light out to him and Sherlock is aware of impasse. He can leave, now and wander the streets of London forever, go to his brother and find out what mummy wanted him to learn, or, or....

He reaches out, fingers brushing the surprisingly warm plastic fingers. They part at his touch. He is sucked suddenly and completely into the light.

Life stretches long before him. It reaches out, so sharp and so wild that it is like fire and ice against his skin, a maelstrom pushing and pulling him in all contrary directions. He feels like pulled taffy so badly do they rock against him. Long does he endure this, this excess of movement and sound, raucous and gaudy. It is a feast for the senses, so much that it _hurts_ to feel. Eventually it settles around him, fire and ice mixing, swirling, fading into each other. This sits on his body like a layer of thick molasses. He can barely breath for it, can feel each movement of arm or leg like a dragging weight has been attached to them. He pushes and pulls but it does nothing. It is stifling. He sits, hands over head, curled into a ball. He squeezes his eyes shut tight until he sees flashing swirling lights beneath his eye lids. Concentrates on them so hard that slowly they become shapes. Shapes and sounds, a rushing ride that barrels past him, leaving him cowering in its wake.

It is endless. It is endless and it is tedious and he sees a dog. He sees a warm bed, made up tight and clean. He is warm, he is comfortable. His mind is still and racing at the same time, the contradiction pounding behind his eyes.

Figures flash past his minds eye.

There he lays dead and next to him lies a man. Stocky and hale in life, he is bloodless and withered in death. He is covered in fire, body burning up, sin crisping and flaking away like black snow. His own body, Sherlock's body, on the other hand, lies cold, tinged blue and black with frostbite. He falls to his knees beside the bodies, palms sticking the ground and then sinking through. He's falling, suddenly, fast and blackness streams over him in great waves. He cannot breathe, he cannot move, he cannot think.

The scene dissolves and he wakes, gasping. He tries to sit and becomes aware of immobility. Something is holding him down. He struggles against it for a long moment until a hand, cool and steady, eases him back down. His vision clears slowly by degrees. He is aware his heart is taking great heaving pumps, blood is rocketing through his system but he can hear something else over the sound. Someone is shouting his name.

"Sherlock, Sherlock it's alright. Calm down, you're in the hospital." John's voice, little plastic John is calling him.

He opens his eyes and breathes.


End file.
